Chapter 44: Smallpox

 

Jenny started her new school term the Monday after the harvest celebration. The older Bingham children joined her students from the prior year. She asked Rachel to assist with the younger children. “You’ve done well working with Mr. O’Neil on his reading,” she told Rachel. “The little ones will be much easier.”

William was still too young for school and played on the buffalo skin beside the students’ benches. Jenny or Rachel had to stop their teaching frequently to care for him when he grew bored.

A few days later Rachel seemed distracted. “What’s wrong?” Jenny asked.

“I’m worried about Esther,” Rachel said. “Her baby’s coming any time, and she gets so tired caring for Jonah and Cordelia.”

Jenny shook her head. “Can’t your papa take Jonah awhile? It’s too much for Esther.”

“Mother Amanda refuses because of her baby Franklin. She says she has too many to tend already. May I go stay with Esther?”

“Of course,” Jenny said. “It’s selfish of me to keep you here when Esther needs you.”

“They don’t have much room, but I’ll live there till her baby’s born.” Rachel twisted her apron in her hands. “What about the school? Maybe I can come help one or two days a week till Esther’s confinement.”

“I’ll manage if I have to,” Jenny said.

That night she wrote:

 

Thursday, October 4th—For Esther’s sake, I must let Rachel go. I will miss her company dearly. She has become a good friend and such a help with school, house, and William.

Today is my 17th birthday. I doubt anyone in Oregon even knows.

The following Sunday morning William complained, “Mama, I’m hot.”

Jenny felt his forehead—burning. O’Neil brought her a bucket of water, and she removed William’s shirt and wiped his chest and back with a soft rag. The toddler shivered and cried. “I hurt” was all he could tell his mother as he wept.

“There’s smallpox around,” O’Neil said quietly. “A company of this year’s emigrants brought it with them. Lots of folks sick.”

“Smallpox,” Jenny whispered. She hugged William close. “You think he has smallpox?”

“One family it struck is the Binghams. Their baby’s sick. You spent time with them at the picnic. Their older children been comin’ to your school.”

“My heavens!” Jenny said. “Go get Doc Tuller.”

O’Neil set out at once. While she waited for Doc, Jenny fretted over William and continued to bathe him.

“My head hurts, Mama,” William complained. He puked up the water she gave him to sip. Jenny nearly vomited herself in fear.

She tried not to let the toddler see how afraid she was, but she was close to tears when O’Neil and the doctor returned.

“Is it smallpox?” Jenny asked, crossing her arms as if she could ward off the response she dreaded.

Doc examined William’s body, arms and legs, paying particular attention to his hands and feet. He listened to the boy’s heart and felt his forehead. “Too soon to tell,” he said. “Early symptoms are there—fever, vomiting, achiness. But no spots yet. That’ll be the true sign.”

“What do I do?” Jenny’s knuckles turned white when she clutched the table where William sat for Doc’s examination.

“Watch him. Keep him away from other people. Give him lots of water. Like you did for McDougall when he had cholera.” Doc gathered his instruments. “You’ll have to close your school till the boy’s well. I’ll stop by the Pershing farm on my way home. Jonathan and David can tell the rest of your students.” Doc frowned at Jenny. “You ever had smallpox?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mama never told me I did, and I don’t remember it.”

“If not, you’re likely to get it now. It spreads fast, and you been around your pupils and William.”

Jenny gulped and nodded.

“There’s an innoculation in England, and it’s used in the East,” Doc said. “Some doctors swear by it, others think it causes more harm than good. But no matter, ’cause I ain’t got any to give folks.”

“I’ve had smallpox, Doc.” O’Neil gestured at the marks on his face. “When I was a lad.”

“Then you can help nurse the boy,” Doc said. “Keep Jenny away as much as you can. Seems the closer someone is to the sick, the more likely they are to get the disease.”

“I’ll take care of my son,” Jenny said, lifting her chin and clenching her jaw. She wouldn’t abandon William, even if she became ill.

When Doc had packed his bag and washed his hands, she escorted him to the cabin door. “Could William die, Doc?” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

Doc patted her arm. “Don’t worry about that yet. Most folks pull through. Keep water in him and watch the fever. But if it’s smallpox, he’s likely to end up scarred. You know that, don’t you?”

“Just as long as I still have him,” Jenny said. She would love William, scars and all. But she couldn’t lose him.

When Rachel stopped by the next morning, Jenny wouldn’t let her in the cabin. “I don’t want you catching it,” Jenny said. “Esther needs you. Any sign of her baby yet?”

Rachel shook her head. “This one’s taking its time.”

“Don’t let Esther anywhere near here,” Jenny pleaded. “She can’t risk getting sick.”

“I’ll bring hot food every day, so’s you don’t have to cook,” Rachel said. “I’ll leave the pot outside, and Mr. O’Neil can bring it in.”

Jenny’s days and nights ran together. A few days after William came down with the fever, he developed red spots on his face and hands. Then spots sprang up on his stomach and back. The spots turned to blisters, which filled and burst, then scabbed.

Jenny hadn’t nursed anyone seriously ill since Mac had had cholera at Ash Hollow along the trail. She’d felt so alone tending him then, surrounded by others in their company ministering to their own invalids. Doc Tuller had been there, but he rushed from tent to tent caring for all the patients. The same was true now. Doc traveled from cabin to cabin looking after people with smallpox. He only came to see William every two or three days.

O’Neil insisted on relieving Jenny of much of William’s care. “The boy likes me, Miz Jenny,” he said. “And you need your sleep.” He sent her up to the loft to rest, while he watched William during the nights. During the days, he did the chores, started the corn harvest, and—Jenny hoped—caught a few hours’ sleep in the barn. The man seemed tireless.

“You’re doing what you can, Jenny,” Doc Tuller told her during one visit. “The boy’s fortunate. Not many pox on his face. Are you feeling all right?”

She nodded. “I don’t seem to be getting sick.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Some, thanks to Mr. O’Neil. He works all day and watches William at night.”

“And eating?”

Jenny nodded again. “Rachel brings over dishes from Esther. And I keep a pot of soup on the fire.”

“The boy’ll be better soon. If you stay well, you’ll be back to teaching by the end of November.”

“How are my students?” Jenny asked. “Have any of them . . . ?” She couldn’t bear to ask if any had died.

“None of them dead yet, though some of my other patients have died,” he said. “But the Binghams had it bad. All their children, especially young Meg. And one of the Abercrombie granddaughters.”

Jenny gasped. “Those poor families.”

“Don’t open your school till all your students have been without scabs for two weeks,” Doc said, packing his bag. “Seems to be passed along while the pox are open and scabbing. And don’t let William scratch. Or his scars’ll be worse, and he could get gangrene.”

Jenny grabbed a moment to write that evening:

 

Monday, October 29th—Doc says William is improving, but not out of the woods yet. Some poor souls have died of this horrible disease, though none of my students. Some are marked for life. I pray my boy heals!

Jenny and O’Neil couldn’t keep William from scratching. She tried distracting the two-year-old with blocks and other toys, but he was too fretful to play for long. If she read to him, he scratched. She put socks on his hands, but he pulled them off.

Some of his pox grew infected and turned an angry red, visibly pulsing with heat. William’s fever raged again, and he became delirious, screaming about spiders in the corner.

“Too bad the boy’s pa ain’t here,” O’Neil said one night. He held William while Jenny sponged her son with a damp cloth.

“What do you mean?” Jenny asked. Did he mean Mac, or had he heard something else about who William’s father was?

“S-s-sorry, Miz Jenny,” O’Neil stammered. “I shouldn’t have spoke.”

Jenny felt faint when she realized why O’Neil had brought up William’s father. She sank to the floor beside William’s bed. “You mean William might die? Without his father seeing him again?”

“I shouldn’t have said nothin’.”

“William will be fine. He has to be. He’s all I have.” Jenny pulled the wet rag from the bucket by William’s bed and wrung it out. “We have to bring his fever down.” She couldn’t speak further for the lump in her throat.

She wished Mac were with her. He’d always given Jenny strength.

“Sweet Jesus, save my boy,” Jenny sobbed as she bathed William in oatmeal to soothe his itchiness. Prayer and a loving hand were all she could offer him now.